


A Little Holiday Magic

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:30:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Bellamy loved Hogwarts so much he never left, but being a professor is very different from being a student there. He misses his friends a lot, none more than Clarke. Which might be why he's so excited to hear she's coming to visit for the holidays.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellykomskaikru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellykomskaikru/gifts).



> HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM YOUR SECRET SANTA! i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

Bellamy has always loved the morning post.

The first time an owl ever delivered anything to him, it was his Hogwarts letter coming in the mail. Even at eleven, he was too cynical to really believe in magic. The owl delivery system was pretty convincing, as was his mother’s tired sigh when she saw the seal on the envelope.

A squib whose children both had muggle fathers. The magical world had turned its back on her, so she'd turned her back on it. She hadn’t _expected_ that her children would be wizards or witches, but she'd known it was a possibility. Seeing that first owl waiting for them on the porch was an undeniable sign.

After that, for a couple of years, owls meant the only contact he had with Octavia. She would write to him with glitter pens about the fights she got in on the playground, and he would write back to her about the things he was learning and how annoyed he was that his Gameboy didn't work there.

Once she started at Hogwarts, he had no reason to expect an owl in the morning-- his mother avoided owl post and all things magic-related unless absolutely necessary-- so he’d used his carefully budgeted savings to subscribe to the  _Daily Prophet_. He’d never regretted it.

He never got over the inherent excitement of seeing the owls swoop into the Great Hall, even if they didn’t bring a message for him, even fifteen years later, when he’s no longer a student but a professor at Hogwarts. It’s not as awe-inspiring as it used to be, but every now and then the sight of the owls will remind him how awesome his life is.

He doesn't get much mail these days. Octavia, who works with dragons in some distant country, is too busy to write often. Sometimes he’ll get a letter from Miller, or Raven, but usually the three of them keep in touch through a mirror and controller Raven bewitched to connect to her gaming system. By ‘keep in touch,’ he means trash talking, with occasional updates on their personal lives.

So he’s pleasantly surprised one morning when an owl he recognizes settles in front of him and starts pecking at his plate.

“Whoa, Archimedes. That’s not for you,” he chides, moving his plate away from the chubby bird. It nips at his finger, put out. “She spoils you.”

Archimedes lets him take the letter tied to his leg, then soars away, presumably in search of a mouse or a poorly-guarded muffin. The message turns out to be half a sheaf of Rapid-Reply Parchment, on which familiar handwriting reads, _Christmas plans?_ and nothing else.

He grins and roots around in his robes for a ballpoint pen. He gave up on quills ages ago.

_Oh, I'm doing just fine. Lost ten sickles to Professor Sinclair on Hufflepuff v. Ravenclaw last week but otherwise good. Thanks for asking, Princess._

He can practically feel the disdain radiating from the scrawl that materializes underneath his message: _Answer the damn question, Blake._

_No plans. Staying in the castle for the holidays. There are a lot of hatchings due in December, so O won’t get to visit until spring. Any reason you’re asking?_

_Just trying to keep tabs on you at all times._

_Some people might call that stalking._

_Some people might mind their own business_ , comes her quick reply, and then, after a moment,  _My mother is still on her sabbatical so I thought I might pay Hogwarts a visit for the holidays._

He fights down any evidence of joy on his face. He has a Grumpy Professor reputation to maintain, after all. _Hogwarts would love that,_ he writes. It’s only half a cop-out.

There’s a long pause before a doodle of the castle appears, hand-drawn snowflakes spelled to fall upon it. Underneath, she’s written, _So would I._

 

* * *

 

It’s only a few weeks until Christmas and good cheer has already begun to grip the school. Bellamy is no exception, much to his pupils’ suspicion and mild alarm.

Normally this time of year makes him more unpleasant than usual. The snow is pretty for the first hour or so, but as soon as he has to set foot in it, it’s a pain. His students pay little attention, all too distracted by the approaching holiday and subsequent break from classes. And this year should be no different, especially with Octavia halfway across the world.

But Clarke is coming to visit. His best friend, whom he misses like he hasn’t seen her in years.

To be fair, that’s his melodramatic side rearing its ugly head. She usually pops into Hogsmeade once or twice during the school year to grab a drink and catch up. He always looks forward to those days, to the way her eyes light up when she’s telling a story, to the way she tucks herself into his side when she’s tipsy, to the bits of her life she shares for him to cling to until next time.

During the summer holiday, he’ll visit her shop in Diagon Alley, distracting her from her painting and squabbling with the portraits she’s already finished. She’s one of the best magical portraitists around, if you’re looking for a good physical likeness. Personality-wise, they’re always a tiny bit off. She puts too much of herself in them, Bellamy thinks, because he’s always able to goad them into an argument, no matter how easygoing they were or are in real life.

But now she’s coming for a whole week. Seven full days together. He’s looking forward to it more than he’d care to admit.

Even so, she manages to surprise him at lunch on the day of her arrival, sliding into a chair that had been conjured only seconds before.

“Hey, stranger.”

He drops his spoon, the clank of it against his bowl enough to draw a few pairs of eyes. The attention isn’t enough to dissuade him from wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her in a quick hug.

“The security in this place isn’t what it used to be,” he teases. “They’ll let any old witch in these days if she bats her eyelashes just right.”

“And they’ll let any old wizard with a nerdy pair of glasses teach impressionable children," she shoots back, a cup of steaming tea appearing before her. 

“You like the glasses,” he reminds her, thinking of the day in their fifth year when he explained contact lenses to her and she had an intensely negative reaction. Her cheeks turn pink with the memory, bright beneath her blue eyes, but she never stops smiling. He’s sure his own grin is equally mortifying.

“This is why I never give you compliments,” she grumbles. "You never let me live them down."

“And I never will."

She leans against him, bumping her shoulder against his fondly. “You’ve got to stop looking at me like that. You’ll lose face.”

“It’s already lost. I’ve been in such a good mood that even my students are picking up on it. Fourth-years whisper when I walk by in the corridors--”

“Fourth-years whisper about everything.”

“--and my second-years have been so suspicious they’ve behaved like angels--”

“Maybe they’re just good kids.”

He gives her a dubious look. “Even good kids get restless this time of year. Besides, my N.E.W.T. class confronted me about it this morning.”

“What did you tell them?” She asks, glee overtaking her features.

“Nothing, I just glared. That used to do the trick. Didn’t work this time, for some reason.”

“They know the real you is too nerdy to be intimidating,” she teases. He shakes his head and bumps her back. He suspects the real reason is that he couldn’t keep the glare going, couldn’t restrain his excitement over seeing her.

He’s so gone for her. There’s no use in denying it.

“Why’d you get here so early?” He asks, sweeping those thoughts away. “I still have classes this afternoon.”

She sips at her tea. “You heard about the incident near the Headmaster’s office with the pixies?”

“Of course I heard. I’m the one who stopped the first-years from accidentally firing hexes in their attempts to stop the chaos. How did _you_ hear?”

“I guess a lot of paintings got caught in the crossfire. Kane hired me to restore the art and repair the charms. That was my excuse to my mother, anyway. She invited me to come out to Peru-- she’s tinkering with a remedy that involves poison dart frogs, but that means she has flies everywhere and, well,” her eyes meet his, earnest and clear as the winter sky, “I really just wanted to see you.”

Bellamy nods, unable to look away. He misses her so much he doesn't know what to do with himself sometimes. Getting to spend time with her is basically the best Christmas gift he can imagine.

He can't say any of that, at least not yet. She might feel awkward and leave early. But he doubts he can hold it in much longer either, so he resolves to tell her at the end of the week. He's fairly certain he can wait that long.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, clearing his throat. “It's good to see you too.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke thinks the restoration of the paintings won’t take much longer than an afternoon, two days at most, so she heads towards Kane’s study while Bellamy tries to keep it together through his afternoon lectures. He thinks he does an admirable job forgetting she’s close by for most of the day, but it becomes impossible when she slips into the back of the room during the last ten minutes of his last class.

“Don’t mind me,” she stage-whispers when his third-years turn to look at her curiously. “I’m just here to learn.”

“This is Miss Griffin,” he tells his students. “She’ll be around school for the next few days doing some work on the portraits, though I don’t know why she’s _here_. There aren’t any paintings in this room.”

She grins and he gives her his sternest glare. Just because he’s in love with her doesn’t mean she can’t be a pain in his ass. All his favorite people are a pain in his ass. He really screwed himself by having a type.

“Like I said, I’m here to learn,” she shrugs, tipping back in her chair and propping her feet up on the desk. Goading him. “I don’t remember much from History of Magic, probably because I didn’t have as good a teacher as Professor Blake is. You guys really lucked out.”

“We had the same teacher,” he says, eyeing her feet pointedly.

Her grin widens and the thirteen-year-olds giggle as she rearranges herself so she’s sitting as he remembered her from school: straight in her chair, leaning forward as if not to miss a thing. And she calls him a nerd.

“You’re right. I didn’t apply myself. Don’t be like me.”

He shakes his head and addresses his students again. “If Miss Griffin is finished with her disruption, maybe we can finish talking about the second goblin rebellion so I don’t have to assign you all homework over the holidays?”

She stays quiet during the remainder of the lesson, but he still feels off his game.

“Wow," she says, sauntering up when it's finally over. He gives her an unimpressed look. "You’re kind of a hardass.”

Some of the lingering third-years giggle again, but a glance in their direction sends them scurrying out the door.

“I’m glad some of my students still think so after that display.”

Clarke loops her arm through his, letting him lead her toward the faculty common room. “Get your mind out of the classroom, Blake. You’re officially on holiday, and I’m going to make sure you enjoy it. Even if I have to slip you some Draught of Delight to do it.”

“Not that I’d put it past you, but that seems like a pretty extreme measure.”

“I only get you for a week. I want to make the most of it.”

Bellamy extracts his arm from her grasp, only to wrap it around her, pull her close so he can press his lips to her temple. He should probably worry about nosy portraits, or even a student rounding the corner unexpectedly, but she already looks like she’s mourning the end of the week. He doesn’t know how to not comfort her.

He also thinks it’s going to be harder to be apart when she leaves again. It always is.

“I assume you have a schedule planned?” He asks, his heart squeezing when she wraps an arm around his waist and doesn’t pull away.

“I might have brainstormed a little.”

“In other words, you have a down-to-the-minute itinerary.”

“Maybe not down to the _minute_ ,” she says, thoughtful. “That would take a lot of work. But I accept that as a challenge for next time.”

“So what do our next few hours look like?”

“Well, I left my bag in the staffroom when I took the floo network in. Maybe we can stick it in your room?"

Bellamy blinks, taken aback. “Oh. I didn’t realize you’d be staying with me.”

“Where else would I stay?” She bites her lip. “I mean, I guess I could ask Kane if--”

“No, it’s fine. I just hadn’t thought about it. Of course you’re welcome.”

“Well… good,” she says, both of them nodding to the gargoyles that guard the entrance to the faculty common room as they pass.

His quarters aren’t anything special. It’s spacious enough that he could see himself living there comfortably into his old age, as many of the other professors have done, but with Clarke beside him it feels smaller somehow. Intimate.

“Put on something warm,” she tells him, her eyes taking in her surroundings. “I want to see the grounds. I always loved them in the snow.”

“Can’t we see the snow from inside?” He grumbles, but he’s already shucking his robes and searching through his drawers for his warmer clothing. When he starts to unbutton his shirt in favor of his thickest sweater, Clarke averts her eyes, her cheeks rosy.

It’s an interesting reaction and he tucks it away to examine more closely later on.

“I want the full Hogwarts experience.”

“What about being cold and wet is part of the Hogwarts experience?”

She ignores his question, stepping closer to the wall to run her fingers across the photos he hung there. There’s one of Octavia from her first Quidditch match, grinning wide and beater's club raised in victory. There's a clipping of Raven from a piece the  _Prophet_ did when she was awarded the Order of Merlin. There’s a photo Miller sent him from his trip to meet Monty’s extended family in South Korea, Monty smiling and waving, Miller making a rude gesture.

Then there’s his favorite, the group shot Clarke’s dad took of them all at their graduation. They’re all squished together-- Jasper clinging to Harper’s arm, Raven’s elbow resting on Murphy’s shoulder, Miller’s fingers twined with Monty’s-- but Bellamy’s favorite part is that he has one arm hooked around Octavia’s neck and the other wrapped around Clarke’s waist. The two people he cares about most, in his arms.

“I love this one,” she says fondly. “All my favorite people in one place.”

“Even Murphy?”

“Even Murphy,” she laughs, then looks over to him again. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

It is kind of nice, falling into step with Clarke as they make their way down to the lake, and then around it. She tells him what she knows about her mother’s research, he tells her about Octavia’s work.

“You know, I was kind of skeptical when I heard what she was doing,” Clarke says.

“I was too,” he admits. “I mean, I love O but she isn’t the most natural nurturer. If anything, I thought she’d be dealing with wild dragons, not newborns.”

“My friend Lincoln is on that unit too. He says it’s been a perfect fit for her.”

“She said he and their boss work with the hatchlings while O deals with the mothers. Apparently they can be a bit overbearing right after the eggs have hatched, even if they know the wizards.”

“And Octavia has _lots_ of experience dealing with overprotective parental figures,” Clarke teases. Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“Thanks for that flattering comparison.”

“That’s what I meant when I said I was skeptical. I knew she’d be fine; she doesn’t know how to quit going after something she wants. I’m more surprised _you_ haven’t followed her across the world yet.” She pauses. “Or fretted yourself to death.”

“I’m not that bad,” he protests.

“You are.”

“I worry a reasonable amount.”

“For eighty people. For one person, it's a little much."

A flick of his wand sends a spray of snow her way and she yelps, dodging it. “Oh, you should know better than to start a war you can’t win.”

“Big talk,” he taunts, waving his wand to deflect the snowball that comes flying at him. But he misses the one that comes at him from behind, snow sliding down the back of his shirt. It's powdery and light, but the instant it comes into contact with his skin it melts into frigid droplets that chill him to the bone.

And then it’s _on_ , snowballs firing rapidly, both of them soaked and shivering and laughing like he hasn’t laughed in ages. Bellamy creates tidal waves of snow that she decimates with sharp blasts; she responds with little snow birds, enchanted to chase him around. One of them snatches his wand with its icicle beak, carrying it over to where Clarke is waiting with an outstretched palm.

Before he can second-guess himself, while her attention is still on her bird, he launches himself toward her and tackles her into the snow.

They fall in a tangle of limbs, one of his arms pinned beneath her even as her shoulder knocks the air out of his chest. He gasps for air while she laughs, pushing herself off him enough that he can breathe again.

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” she says, her tone smug. Her eyes are sparkling, cheeks bright, smile sweet. One of her blonde curls has come loose and tickles where it brushes his skin. He barely thinks about it before he reaches up to tuck it behind her ear.

Her breath catches.

“You’re right,” he says, swallowing and dropping his hand back into the snow. The cold is a shock to his system, just what he needs to snap out of it before he does something he can’t take back. “It is all my fault you stole my wand. I did what I had to do, Princess.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off him so they can both sit up.

“Back to that old nickname, are we?”

He’d started calling her that in their first year. He felt like he was suddenly living a fairy tale life, and what fairy tale would be complete without royalty? She’d been everything he thought a princess should be: pretty and well-off and sure of herself, in this world where he wasn’t sure of anything.

At times, he’d spat it like an insult, but for the most part it’s a term of endearment that doubles as a way to pull her metaphorical pigtails.

“You know you love it.”

“Keep telling yourself.” She reaches out and ruffles his hair, dislodging clumps of snow. He laughs and shakes his head, letting the flakes fall into her lap instead. “Quit,” she shrieks, pushing him away. “I’m cold enough as it is.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” he parrots back to her, but he clambers up and holds a hand out to help her off the ground. “Hot chocolate?”

Instead of letting go, she keeps ahold of his hand and starts puling him toward the castle. “Sounds perfect.”

Rather than subjecting themselves to a Great Hall full of students, they sneak down to the kitchen. Predictably, the House Elves are more than willing to send a tray along to Bellamy’s room once they’ve had a chance to change into dry clothes. He keeps his back turned while she dresses, swapping his soaked jeans for soft sweatpants, his coat and sweater for an old t-shirt. He’s meticulously stoking a small fire in his hearth when she wanders over.

"Bon appetit." She's the picture of coziness: fuzzy socks on her feet, a thick sweater that covers all but the tips of her fingers, steam curling over the lip of the mugs in her hands. He takes his gratefully and she settles down next to him, knees and elbows brushing his, placing her toes as near to the fire as she dares.

They sit in companionable silence, and that's one of the things he always loved about Clarke-- for all that she's the most intense person he knows, when they're together he can just  _be_. There are no pretenses between them, no pressure. He feels most like himself when he's with her.

"What are you thinking about?" She asks, rearranging so she's facing him, tucking her feet under his knees. He can feel how cold her toes are through their layers and he jumps a little. She smiles at that, wiggles her toes until he pins them to the floor with his leg.

"How I didn't get you a Christmas present."

"I'm sure I'll live. It isn't like you have a lot of time off to go shopping."

"Yeah, but if you got me something I'm going to feel guilty."

"Rest easy," she says, licking marshmallow froth off her upper lip. It's distracting, to say the least. "I didn't get you anything either."

"You live  _in Diagon Alley_ ," he protests, mostly for the hell of it. "And you didn't get me anything?"

"My presence is gift enough," she sniffs. "And you're offering me food and shelter. That's plenty."

"Just shelter. I'm not taking credit for the food."

"Well, it's a place with no insect infestation, and no holiday awkwardness with my mother. What more could I ask for?"

Bellamy snorts. "I'll drink to that."

He blames the fire for the warmth in his cheeks when she smiles at him and clinks her mug against his. "Cheers."

 

* * *

 

"It looks... um. Pretty."

"It looks uncomfortable," she huffs, crossing her arms. "I used to be  _good_ at Transfiguration."

Bellamy bites back a smile as he studies the bed that used to be a pillow. Somehow, Clarke's magic turned it lumpier, and the bedposts holding it off the floor don't look like they'll hold up for long. He's slept through worse, but she looks to be in for a rough night. "Clearly you need a refresher course."

"It'll do for tonight," she sighs, pulling a blanket from her bag and nestling under it. Bellamy climbs into his own bed, a little awkward as he douses the lights.

The room had grown to accommodate the new furniture, giving Bellamy all kinds of ideas for future comforts, but in the dark, with moonlight streaming through his window and Clarke so near, it's like the world is shrinking in on them. He rests one hand beneath his head, wondering how long it will take his brain to slow down enough that he's not so aware of the girl in the bed next to him.

He can't see her (it's too dark, and he's taken his glasses off anyway), but he can hear her rustling as she tries to get comfortable. It's not just the squeaking of the bed frame or the constant redistribution of her weight; she keeps making these noises of dissatisfaction. Frustration. Annoyance. 

Finally, he can't take it anymore. He knows he'll never get to sleep when he knows she's so uncomfortable, that his mind will never relax if she keeps reminding him that she's there. So he scoots to one side of his bed and holds the covers open wordlessly. And waits.

Before long, she shuffles in next to him, stretching out until they're side by side.

This is almost worse, he decides. She's close enough that he can feel her warmth, close enough he would barely have to move to take her hand. Two parallel lines that don't intersect. He'll never be able to rid his mind of her now.

But then her breathing evens out, like the rhythmic hush of waves lapping against a shore. Her limbs loosen, loll to the side until the back of her hand barely brushes against his. That simple touch calms his inner self, and before he quite knows it, he's drifting off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes in much the same way.

The sun glints off the snow-covered roof, flinging beads of light into the room. Bellamy awakens slowly, gently, softly. His first thought is that he'd like not to move for a good long while. His limbs are heavy with that kind of contentment that only comes after a deep sleep, the shape and temperature of his bed molded perfectly to his body. Muddled with slumber, it takes his mind a moment to register the points of contact, the movement against his skin that is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

When he opens his eyes, he sees that Clarke is already awake and wrapped tightly under his arm. Her eyes trace his features as her hands drift along his side and back. Her smile blooms lazily when she sees that he has finally woken.

He's not aware enough to remember that just because this is what he dreams of waking up to every day, doesn't mean it's their reality. Before he can realize that, before he can release her from his hold, roll away, before he can even register that she doesn't seem inclined to move, she leans forward and fits her lips against his.

It's barely a kiss, so soft that if he closed his eyes, he'd think he was imagining it. He's too stunned to move, too lethargic to realize what's happening. She doesn't press closer or move away, doesn't do much at all except exist in the same space he's in for a lingering moment. And then she retreats, letting her head find its place pillowed on his arm again, watching him with a tiny smile.

It's as if she knows he needs a moment to process, because she doesn't seem nervous, or even uncertain. She simply waits, her nails skimming along the bumps in his spine. Expectant, but content to let him catch up.

It's so  _her_ , he thinks. Tender in a way that he's only ever seen her be with him, but sure enough of herself to go after what she wants.

He does the only thing he knows to do: he rolls toward her, cupping her face with his hand, and kisses her soundly.

It's longer, headier this time-- the pressure firmer, the sweep of her tongue bolder-- but still tempered with the earliness of the day and the newness of  _them_. They chase the stale taste out of each other's mouths, hands grasping each other closer, and closer still. She melts beneath him, both of them sinking into the mattress, and he  _really_ doesn't want to move now.

It's more than he ever could have imagined, mostly because he's not quite able to wrap his mind around the fact that she seems to want this as much as he does.

They let it taper off, his lips tracing her neck and shoulder, dropping gentle kisses along her jaw, behind her ear, as her fingers weave through his hair.

"So." Her voice is soft, as if she doesn't want to break the spell they're under, but her tone is conversational. As if this were any other morning. He hopes to high heaven it will be the start of many just like it.

"So," he echoes, lifting his head to look at her.

"That went well."

He blinks at her for a moment and then they both burst out in breathy laughter. 

"Did you think it was going to go poorly?" He asks, rolling to the side to take some of his weight off her. She doesn't let him go far, hooking one of her legs around his. He runs his thumb across her ribs, his hand having made its way up under her shirt.

"I was afraid it might," she confesses. "But there was no way I could restrain myself, waking up like that."

He shakes his head and leans down to steal another kiss. "I was going to say something before you left at the end of the week. I couldn't hold back much longer either."

"My way is better," she hums.

"You always think so."

"My way, we get to spend our week finding places to make out around the castle and lounging in bed together," she points out. "Your way, we'd have to go through the very full itinerary of things I had planned to stop me from jumping you."

"Okay, you're right," he admits. "Your way is better."

"That's what I thought, too."

 

He knows that while they have a whole week of bliss ahead of them, their parting will be both more bitter and more sweet. It'll be harder to say goodbye, and easier to be certain that he'll see her again. Soon. 

But that's tomorrow's worry. For now, he lets her draw him back to her, settles in to explore all the parts of her he doesn't yet know and can't wait to learn. For now, he lets himself be happy in a way that he only can around Clarke. 

It's pretty much the best Christmas ever, and it's only the beginning. 


End file.
